


I Think We're Alone Now

by Zoya1416



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: F/M, First Time, Panic Attacks, overcoming abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 18:07:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark Vorkosigan and Kareen Koudelka are at the Orb for their first time together. Betan therapy has helped Mark learned to manage and control his four sub-personalities, the black gang, who split off from him during torture by Baron Ryoval.  This is a test of that therapy. The rape/non-con elements are canon, historical and referenced without detail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Think We're Alone Now

**Author's Note:**

> The Vorkosigan Saga all belongs to LMB. Mark's fractured personality and past abuse, and his attempts to recover from this, are canon from Mirror Dance and A Civil Campaign.

Mark and Kareen surveyed each other across the small table, at the small but exquisite dinner in front of them—roasted new potatoes, sharp cheese and rosemary crumbled on them; a small salad of field greens, small crisp apples the size of grapes with tangy bursts of flavor, vat beef slices in cranberry sauce. Mark had just made a filthy joke.

“No!” said Kareen. “You wouldn't do that!”

“I should,” he said. “You can get anything on the Orb you want, from naked monks intoning Gregorian chants, to pygmies in daisy chains, etc, etc., but I'd love to see the waiter's face if I asked for a rare steak. Of real beef.”

“They would just die if you did that. My parents do eat beef,” said Kareen. “It's delicious, and I really think Tante Cordelia doesn't know what she's missing. But the closest real beef here is probably on Jackson's Whole.”

His smile faded a little.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to remind you--” 

“No, I'm fine, really. Did you say you had some eclairs?”

“Afterward. We don't want Gorge to get you too full, right?”

He was tempted for a minute. Eat as much as he could, and he'd forget how much he wanted to make love to Kareen for the very first time. But, no, tonight was hers. And his. And theirs.

He bit his lip and said, “Do you want to come sit on the bed, then?”

She nodded and they moved awkwardly to it.

The customers at Beta Colony's notorious Orb could indeed have almost anything they wanted sexually, any fantasy which did not leave someone permanently hurt. Shows were endlessly imaginative, and lust almost faded with so many variations offered. But the Orb's designers had determined that many patrons wanted what they always had, but more so—a deluxe, fairy-tale version of normal which ignited all the senses.

Kareen and Mark, therefore, were seated in a room like that of the grand Palace de Versailles, eating the small meal they'd ordered. Every bite was perfect, and designed to sharpen smell and taste.

Kareen was wearing a pink silk nightgown, low cut, with slits up the sides and a pink dressing gown with a brushed lining, for warmth. Mark wore black silk pajamas. 

He held her hand as they sank onto the bed. It was a normal bed, generous size, brass head and foot, mattress, sheets, a quilted top, a duvet, pillows, in the colors they'd requested. The room was cream with blue-green accents; the bedding was a matching soft turquoise with a simple pattern. No special additives. Mark had toyed with the concept called a pink vortex, a warm pink tube which would wrap around the participants, rocking, compressing, and loosening, magnifying each participant's movements, apparently quite sensational for women as well as men. Kareen said she didn't need an exterior vagina, thank you.

Mark was grateful to the simple cocktail of drugs his therapist had prepared. He'd taken them as old-fashioned wafers by mouth because patches and hyposprays reminded him too much of his time being tortured by Baron Ryoval. The Betan therapist prescribed one wafer to reduce the adrenaline surges of anxiety, and another to work with the wine he'd drunk, to prolong relaxation without sleep. It helped him focus on the here and now, each moment cherished. He had others if he needed to improve performance, but he wasn't taking those now. 

She scooted to the other side of the bed and sat up holding her knees. He couldn't move the sheets down; he wasn't ready for that. He leaned back, then lay down and pulled the duvet over then. He clenched her hand, then softened his grasp.

“I think Gorge is all right. He's still thinking about dessert, but quietly. Grunt is a little suppressed by the anti-anxiety wafer, so he's not trying to take over. Howl and Killer are not making any noise now.”

Much of Mark's therapy had focused on controlling and coordinating his four sub-personalities so that they obeyed him and did not control him. The drugs helped him manage, and this was the test he'd so desired and feared.

“Good.” Kareen understood him as no other person did. She'd seen him through many rugged moments, and was here now because she trusted him.

“Um.” He rolled to his side, facing her. Her scent was all strawberries, rain, and clean woman. He kissed her and brought his hand down her arm, brushing her breast. (Grunt wanted him to tear off her nightgown, but Mark shushed him.) He kissed lower on her neck, her clavicles. She was the shrimp of the tall Koudelka girls, but still inches taller than he was. (if Galen had not so deformed him he would have been her height or more. Galen had taken so much from him, but he'd killed Galen, saw his brain disappear with the disruptor—Killer liked to remember that moment, but he had no place here.) (Stop it Killer, we're fine. No danger.) 

He took her nipple in his mouth, gently, but as firm as he knew she liked it. She stirred.  
“Umm. Nice.”

He could lie here all night his head between her breasts, and didn't realize he'd said so until she answered him, “If that's what you want.”  
“No. I want to make this good for you and is it? Is it?”

“Hush.” She pulled his head closer.

He really could stay here, but he wanted more. He traced her body down with his fingers, noticing each moment where she responded, memorizing it. Down over her hips. He slid his fingers under the slit at the side of the gown, touching warm woman, warm curves over the strong muscles-- “I love your ass. So round, perfect.” He started to slap it and then fought down the impulse—(Grunt was all about slapping, hitting, rutting, biting, and he couldn't let him up now.)

He groaned. Would this ever become easy? Natural for him?

She took hold of his leg and pulled him half on top of her. His thigh was between hers now, and ohh. His legs straddled one of hers, the closest he ever been with her. He started to thrust, stopped, checked with her. Then he said hoarsely,

“I'm going to get on top of you now.” It was hard to breathe. The last time he'd been on top of someone was when he'd lost himself with the immature blonde clone Maree. It hadn't been right. The clones were mentally immature even though they were physically grown, and he of all men KNEW that. The memory surfaced again now, unpleasantly.

But he'd fought with memories and shame, with his therapists. Maree was unharmed and through his later efforts she was in a safe, secure place now, being allowed to grow, to learn, things she never would have had. He was paying for her care and the forty-eight other humans who would have died. He still couldn't accept how much damage his misguided foray had cost, though, in lives which included Miles, temporarily, anyway--(Mark. You are in your brain, and in memories. Maree is not here. Kareen is. Come back to her.) 

He returned to his body and felt the woman he adored lying under him. She stretched her legs apart and he lay between her thighs. Now her nightgown seemed superfluous, and he shimmied it off. Then he lay down again. All the luscious Kareen was underneath him, breasts, waist, hips, belly—and the parts of her he had trouble naming. There were so many words, from clinical—labia, vagina, clitoris, anus, to those he didn't even want her to hear—well, sometime he'd have to talk to her about really dirty words, ask her permission to say or scream cunt, gash, slit, hole. Not going there tonight.

She shivered a bit.

“What is it—what do you need--”

“Your pajamas are cold.” She giggled. “They looked so sexy, but they're chilly.”

Oh. Yes. He rolled back off, tried to unbutton the top as she reached for his waist, and they knocked heads. She started laughing again, the Kareen laugh, the special one.

“Come here, you!” The top disappeared. Then he stopped with his hand on the silk bottom. She was almost a virgin, she'd only been with a hermaphrodite teacher, once. If he ripped off the last of his clothes he was afraid he'd lose control. (Fuck her hard! Fucker fucker fucker! Make her scream!) (Shut up, Grunt. Go AWAY.) He was afraid he might rape her.

He said so, and she laughed. “You're forgetting something—I'm eight inches taller than you are, and I do martial arts every day. Sweetie, the Team Koudelka girls have practiced self defense moves ever since we could walk.”

She settled down. “So don't wear pajamas next time. Come on, now.”

He settled back over her and found his cock was not cooperating. He reached for the wafer, but she started to rock under him, her thighs opened wide. She had been mostly still before, but she now hugged him, nuzzled his neck, and gave every evidence of beginning to enjoy herself. She lightly scratched his back.

(Scrape it raw with your fingernails, bite me, choke me!) Now it was Howl who was trying to take over. He took some deep breaths. (Make her hit me, I need it!) He promised Howl that another time he might ask Kareen for whipping, but not tonight. (HIT ME!) 

He stopped for a second.  
“I'm going to take a little more of that quieter. The gang's acting up.”

She nodded. One of the things he loved most was that she understood about the Black Gang, and that they had saved him during torture, but served him poorly when he tried to integrate. Tonight was a challenge he intended to win, even if it ended just lying next to her, breathing in her scent. They weren't going to master him.

He again settled on his side and pulled her close. Naked! They were both naked next to each other! It was quite a bit easier now. He needed to tell his therapist about the progress. Amazing! (Shut up Mark! We don't need your analysis now! Make the girl happy!) The quieter wasn't working quite yet.

When he was less anxious, he started to stroke her again, stopped thinking of himself, and now did all he could to pleasure her. Each tiny sigh or moan made him happy.

He was hard again, and he started to slip inside. She gave a tiny start and said, “Put your fingers in a little and come back out. I'm not quite moist enough.”

One of the best things about the Betan's sexuality courses was that they taught the exact details of the sexual act so that even virgins knew what to expect. And—she was right—she needed no more lubrication than her own moisture gently spread over the outer skin of her labia.

Then he was in, and it was everything he'd hoped for, thrusting inside, pushing himself firmly—he came. Dammit! Just a few seconds. No hope of pleasing her.

“God, so sorry, Kareen, so much, wanted you to be happy, take care of you...” Kareen gently rolled him off and offered him some ice water from the carafe on the bedside table. Then she opened another wafer, the one which would reboot his libido, put it lightly between her teeth, and said, “Come get this. It will be fine.”

He laughed and bent to take it. Even as it started to dissolve, he could feel another rise in him. She slid under the covers and held them open for Mark to join her. He did, and it was only him. The black gang had gone quiet, and slipped down underneath his consciousness, to wait until they were called again. It was Mark and Kareen, and Kareen and Mark.

Later there would be cream eclairs, and chocolate, but now it was her, and her smell, her breasts, her full curves, the short scratchy hair he flicked his fingers through, finding the center as she hissed, opening her gently with his fingers, licking, everything he'd learned to please a woman. Then she wanted him inside, and said so, and he entered and rocked his hips up and down, in and out, in an age-old rhythm he could tell was right, holding himself back until she was satisfied, then coming happily. 

She was right. It was more than fine.


End file.
